


i want to touch you (but i’m not that way)

by fleurmatisse



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Getting Together, M/M, post 159 pre 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurmatisse/pseuds/fleurmatisse
Summary: It’s always been easier to reach out with a steaming mug in his hand, the handle held toward whoever it was being offered to or placed on the corner of a desk so their fingers didn’t have a chance to brush.aka martin and his relationship with touch, ft his relationship with jon
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 11
Kudos: 207





	i want to touch you (but i’m not that way)

Martin has never really known what to do with physical affection. He didn’t grow up with it the way it seems like everyone else did, and even within the friendships he had in school the idea of reaching out or being reached out to felt...heavy. Like the thought alone held too much weight to lift a hand from his side or, more often, where they sat clasped together in front of his ribs, so he just—didn’t. He wanted to, but it was hard to gauge whether it was even welcome. Were they close enough to bump elbows companionably, to squeeze a shoulder in an attempt to comfort?

Forget hugs altogether; that was too far for Martin’s mind to stretch. Sometimes, before everything went to shit, Tim would sling an arm over his shoulders as he brought Martin in on his commiseration, or Sasha would rest her hand on his arm as she said good night when they parted ways at the Institute’s doors, and he wouldn’t know how to react before the touch was gone, and now it’s far too late. It’s always been easier to reach out with a steaming mug in his hand, the handle held toward whoever it was being offered to or placed on the corner of a desk so their fingers didn’t have a chance to brush. He learned to ignore the way his fingers itched to join with someone else’s, to push overgrown hair out of someone’s face, and who is he kidding within his own internal monologue, it’s Jon he’s thinking of. 

All the times he would find Jon asleep at his desk and his hands ached to land on the back of his neck, to wrap around Jon’s fingers when they held the tea Martin brought him. He didn’t think Jon would have appreciated it; he had a sort of tenseness about him, an invisible barrier that Martin witnessed Tim break on a handful of occasions before everything, and Jon had, on most of those occasions, drawn up his shoulders as soon as Tim was out of sight. 

So Martin kept his hands to himself, and then he stopped wanting to reach out at all, and it was Jon, in the end, who reached first. Who found Martin in the Lonely and cupped his face in shaking, scarred hands, and led him out of the fog with his fingers tight around Martin’s. The time between leaving the Lonely and arriving at Daisy’s safehouse is strange, mostly lost in Martin’s memory except for the times Jon would tap him with a curled finger to get his attention, looking apologetic when Martin startled. The taps stop after they’ve gotten some sleep, in the same bed but with a chasm between them that Martin isn’t sure he would want to bridge if he even knew how. It’s easier to pay attention once he’s slept for nearly an entire day, and Jon is always in his line of sight, and Martin gets...warmer, as they spend their days together. Closer. 

One afternoon he makes Jon laugh, and he wonders what Jon would do if he reached out. Rested a hand on his knee, maybe, or pushed the hair that isn’t long enough to be held in one of Daisy’s old hair ties behind his ear. He thinks about sitting closer than the size of the couch requires, about sharing warmth beneath a blanket, about closing the space between them in the bed to hold or be held. He convinces Jon to come with him on a walk on the outskirts of the village they’re posted up near—not that Jon has anything against walks, it’s just, Martin has been using them to brace himself a little more against the Lonely, to be by himself and know there was someone waiting for him to return, and he knew that Jon took the opportunity to smoke, as if Martin wouldn’t be able to smell the tobacco when he came back. But Jon comes with him, and they keep up a string of conversation that doesn’t really mean anything except that it does, and Martin does some minor orchestrations to have their hands brush and feels Jon look at him, impossibly, more intently. 

It feels a little silly, to get butterflies, but the fact that he feels them at all makes him almost as giddy as when he slips his hand into the curl of Jon’s and Jon adjusts his grip, laces their fingers together and walks closer so neither of their arms are stretched. They’re on their way back to the house when Jon starts fidgeting, his fingers flexing against Martin’s knuckles, and Martin looks at him to find his shoulders lifting in badly concealed discomfort. It stings, and it’s a relief that it stings. 

He opens his hand; Jon holds on a few seconds more, surprise on his face, and then he pulls his hand out of Martin’s and sticks it in the pocket of his coat, silent for a moment. 

“It’s—it’s not you,” Jon says, eyebrows dipping behind the frames of his glasses as he looks at Martin, so earnest Martin isn’t sure what to do with it. Before he can figure it out, Jon’s gaze returns to the path in front of them and he continues, gesturing with his hands still in his pockets, “It’s overwhelming, sometimes. Touch. I’m—I’m not very used to it, to be honest.” A glance toward Martin and a small, self-conscious laugh fill a second’s pause. “And it’s, when it’s skin to skin, it’s...difficult.”

Martin doesn’t realize that’s the end of Jon’s speech until Jon looks at him again and he hastens out an, “Oh!” that has Jon’s expression crinkling. “That’s—okay. I mean, I’m not really used to it either, I have no idea what I’m doing, honestly, so. No skin to skin contact, got it.”

“That’s not,” Jon says, and then he stops. Talking and walking. Martin stops, too, and faces him, watching frustration travel through him before he lets out a breath and takes a hand out of his pocket to sort of chop at the air before he speaks. “It’s overwhelming but it’s not like I  _ hate _ it. I just—have a lower tolerance than most people? And, like I said, it isn’t because it’s you, I like touching you, I just can’t really do it for extended periods of time, and I’m—I don’t really like kissing, either, it’s kind of disgusting if you think about it, which I have, and, well, I don’t know how  _ you  _ feel about it, but that is where I stand. On the issue. Not that it’s an  _ issue _ , but. Anyway. I think this is the part where you say something.”

While Jon had been talking, Martin had felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’d been trying to tamp it down, not wanting Jon to think he’s being made fun of, but it wins out as Jon straightens his glasses and looks determined to not be uncomfortable.

“Okay,” Martin says. 

“Okay?” Jon echoes. 

Martin shrugs. “I can’t say I haven’t thought about kissing you, but I also can’t say I like kissing all that much either. It’s sort of...squishy?”

Jon blinks, and Martin can practically see the wheels turning in his head, even as he starts to smile. 

“You’ve thought about kissing me?”

Martin laughs. “Jon, I told you I loved you, and you’re surprised I might have wanted to kiss you?”

“There are all kinds of love,” Jon says, almost defensive, but he’s smiling like he can’t help it either and he asks, “How do you feel about hugs?”

“Positive,” Martin says, and there’s only an instant of hesitation between them before they meet in the middle, Jon rising on his toes to fold his arms around Martin’s shoulders while Martin wraps his arms around Jon’s middle. Martin hunches slightly so Jon doesn’t have to stretch as much, and Jon shifts closer, his chin finding a place where Martin’s neck meets his shoulders. They both let out a breath that’s more of a sigh, and it makes Martin laugh, which makes Jon laugh, and they’re just standing in the Scottish Highlands holding each other and laughing and it’s so, so absurd after everything they’ve been through.

Jon turns his head, loose hair tickling Martin’s neck, and says, “I love you, Martin.”

Some other time, Martin will tease him and ask what kind of love he means, but now his laugh catches on another emotion and he presses a slightly wobbly smile to Jon’s shoulder before he says, “I love you, Jon.”

When they decide to finally go back to the house, Jon holds out a bent arm like a gentleman from a different time, and Martin hooks his hand around Jon’s elbow without hesitation. They’ll figure this whole touch thing out. For now, at least, they have time.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title is from the other way by weezer aka the song i have decided is an ace anthem thank u very much  
> i wrote half of this standing in the middle of my kitchen bc it was supposed to be a short post about martin and touch and it turned into this


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